A/N: Thanks anyone who returns to this story after its hiatus. Thanks to mixing-colors for the nudge and Belle453 for the beta. :)
Johnny was the last person I had to talk to before acting on my decision. I've admitted who I am to all my closest friends and I haven't lost them, for which I am grateful beyond words. Now it's time for me to step up and to face the music, as my father would say. Face the music - the phrase sticks in my head like a refrain. I never understood the phrase, since music was the best part of my world growing up, which somehow makes it feel worse – like something that is supposed to be good has been corrupted. It's scary, not knowing how this will change things.
Bear accompanies me to the district offices, and I am so nervous I am shaking. "Are you sure about this?" he asks me again, though I swear we've had this discussion a thousand times in the last few days.
In a small voice I admit what he already knows. "No - but I have to," I tell him, and he just squeezes my hand. I remember my father, and what he used to say about how doing the right thing wasn't easy. It would be so easy to turn tail and run home. But I have to do this, for my father if nothing else. He didn't raise me to spend my life in hiding.
Bear and I are directed to a small dingy office, where an older man wearing glasses sits behind a desk. He is one of several district records officers assigned to help sort out errors in the new administration system, correcting records and filing away data on district four citizens, the living and the dead. The man is busy typing away on a machine reminiscent of those my father's staff used in the District 12 offices, when such a thing existed. We wait in a pair of rickety chairs, Bear's hand covering my own hands which lay unsettled in my lap. After a minute, the man looks up from his computer screen and asks in a bored tone, "May I have your correction form?"
Bear squeezes my hand, then releases it as we share a quick glance. We both know the man in front of us is used to dealing with the minutia of the district records, and that this office doesn't usually deal with this kind of thing. Although I don't know what to expect, I know it won't be easy. Swallowing down the anxious worry in my throat, I hand over the form and wait.
The man glances over the form once, then again, looking more attentively between the form and me. "This is .. a most unusual request," he says, though his voice gives only the slightest hint that anything is out of order. When I don't answer immediately, he adds, "Why don't you give me a little background?"
I nod, and think through what I've rehearsed before answering, "My name is Margaret Undersee. I am the daughter of Mayor Henry Undersee of District 12, and the niece of Sally Amelin from sector two. I escaped to District Four during the Quarter Quell. I was supposed to join the Amelin family in sector two. When I got here ... I presented myself as Maddie Amelin and stayed in sector one when the war broke out. By the time I made it to the Amelins, most of the family had been killed, so I returned to sector one." With a deep breath I try to smile, but it's forced and stiff. I add, "I want to correct the record now that the war is over."
The man looks blandly at me, one eyebrow raised behind the glasses. Returning his gaze I see his eyes are hazel, like many district four residents. He sets down my form and flatly answers, "you kids may think this is all fun and games but this is serious work. Please don't waste our time with impossible stories."
I knew we might not be believed, but I didn't expect to feel like we were being brushed aside as if we were just playing a prank. Before Bear can stop me I'm on my feet, raising my voice as I blurt out, "We're not ...," before I can stop myself. Faltering, I sit back down and try again, "I promise we are not here to waste your time. I didn't make this up!"
The man looks at me through his glasses and sighs, "Well I can sign off on your return to District 12. No doubt if your story is true someone there will know you and be able to register you accordingly."
"No," I protest, keeping my voice steady. "I'm not going back. I want to stay here."
From his seat beside me, Bear adds more calmly, "we know it sounds implausible, but please hear us out. We aren't goofing off. Miss Amelin's record will show she's worked the distribution centers. Her true history - that she is really Margaret Undersee from District 12 - can be independently corroborated. If you would give her a chance -" It seems out of place, hearing such formality in Bear's familiar quiet tone.
The man just looks calmly back at us. "And just how do you suggest we corroborate such a story when records from district 12 were destroyed during the war?"
I answer quickly. "Mrs. Everdeen. Carolyn Everdeen is a survivor of District 12. She knows me. She's here helping with the hospital; she can identify me."
Removing his glasses, the man looks between us and rubs the bridge of his nose. He looks down at the form, as if uncertain what to do with us. The seconds tick slowly by. Bear takes my hand again as I sit statue-still, waiting to see how hard this is really going to be. After a moment, the man pulls another paper from a drawer of his desk.
"Well then," he says, "I'm going to need to know everything there is to know about your past. To begin, I will ask you a series of questions. I need to you answer each quickly, honestly, and completely. Is that clear?"
Like a breath of fresh air, the realization that I'm at least going to get a chance at really setting the record straight hits me. I nod, then answer, "yes."
He starts with the basics - name, parents' names, birthdate, age, and the like. He asks about my house and school in District 12, and I answer as best I can, though I hate to dwell on these memories. Eventually my throat feels dry from speaking, but the questions continue. It seems like the man is probing into everything that he can think of - my dinners at the Everdeens, the coal mines, what I know about my father's work. My escape. The bombings.
Finally - finally, the questions end. He finishes writing, then looks up at me. "Miss Amelin. This will take some time for me to process. I will review your paperwork and verify what I can, then discuss possible steps with our manager. We'll be in touch." He tells me that their office will arrange a meeting to review their findings, and will make the decision about whether to approach any District 12 survivors if they determine it necessary. He warns me, in the meantime, not to contact Mrs. Everdeen directly.
I feel uncertain as we walk out of the offices. "You did great," Bear assures me. He seems optimistic, and mentally I know that I should be happy. There's no way I would be questioned so thoroughly if the man didn't intend to follow up on my case ... but I feel emotionally exhausted from the interrogation. It's all distinctly anticlimactic, and there are no guarantees what will happen. All that and now, we have to wait for them to check into me.
Now that I have admitted my identity to someone beyond my close friends, I'm a little paranoid about who might find out, and what it would mean. Though Bear keeps telling me that the records office keeps any investigations under wraps, I still do not trust it. Each day I'm anxious when the district broadcast comes on, wondering if there will be anything about me. It's one of my biggest worries about coming clean - being plastered on the broadcast and losing the anonymity I have here. How strangers would react to my story. The boys tolerate my worries for the most part. Mick takes me dancing again, to take my mind off of it, and this time we get Rose to come along. She leaves early though, and I worry it was wrong to make her come. I think she just tried to look like she was having fun for our sakes. I guess we should have waited until she asked to come, but we just wanted her to be able to have fun again.
A full three weeks crawls slowly by before I hear anything back. Then I am asked to come in for a second meeting the following day. Bear offers to accompany me again, but I know he is busy with the hospital project. I assure him I can handle it on my own. That night I barely sleep, tossing and turning, my dreams a disturbing mix of my past and present lives.
When I check in at the reception desk of the records office, I'm told to sit and wait. The meeting time comes and goes. The longer I sit, the more anxious I get. Finally, the same man I met with the week before appears in the doorway. He looks at me unhappily, and says, "Miss Amelin, please come with me."
I follow him to a different room. It's not an office. It's got concrete walls and is bare except for LED lighting in the ceiling and a mirrored panel on one wall. I'm directed to a chair on one side of a plain metal table, the man takes a chair across from me. Behind him I can see myself reflected in the mirror. The chair is cold, even through my jeans; goosebumps shiver to attention down my arms. A stifling silence fills the room.
"Well, have you looked into my case?" I ask him, nervously.
The man clears his throat, shuffles his papers on the table between us, and looks up at me. He says, "I'm sorry, Miss Amelin, while your story seems consistent, there has been very little we've been able to corroborate thus far."
Fear strikes me hard. "What does that mean?" I ask quickly.
"It means," he answers, "that most of what you told me is either publically available information, which someone hoping to create a fake identity could learn on their own, or cannot be verified. We cannot confirm your background, so I'm afraid there's not much promise for your case."
"What about Mrs. Everdeen?" I insist.
"Mrs. Everdeen has already suffered a great deal. I'm afraid it's been decided that unless we can verify more of your story independently, then discussing your claim with Mrs. Everdeen, whether true or not, would cause undue stress at this time. We will not be asking her to verify your story. At least, not now." Then he's silent again, letting the bad news sink in.
It sinks in alright - my whole body feels like it's sinking, into the chair, the floor, everything. I stare for a moment, my mind racing so quickly that my thoughts don't make sense even to myself. I waited all this time for what? They've decided to do ... nothing? I'm supposed to just live in limbo? For how long?
I force myself to take a breath and answer calmly. "Okay, so what do I do now? There must be something I can do," I ask.
"Well, before anything else happens I need to ask you a few more questions about your claims. But for now, your records will not be changed. You remain Madeleine Amelin of district four." His stern gaze silences my protest.
I have no choice. I answer his questions as well as I can. At least I brought a bottle of water with me this time, so my throat doesn't dry out quite as badly. Today my interrogator focuses on my interactions with the survivors of District Four and visitors from the Capitol. I try to give as complete a list as I can think of, of the Capitol visitors who passed through District 12, stayed at our home, and might remember me. He has me repeat everything he's already heard about my friendship with Katniss, and how I know her mother. I tell him about Peeta, Haymitch, and Gale. The records officer shows me a list of survivors - mostly unfamiliar names, since the vast majority were from the Seam. I tear up looking through the list. I learn that Delly Cartwright survived - I remember thinking I'd seen her in the broadcast of Finnick and Annie's wedding. She is the only Cartwright listed; the war has orphaned both of us. I wonder if she is still in District 13, or if she's going home to 12. I see four other Hawthornes listed alongside Gale - so his family survived, too. I point out one or two other names of classmates, but without any confidence that they would remember me. By the time I leave, I am once again deflated again by the toll of reliving old memories.
Several more weeks pass by before I hear anything more, and when I do it's the same message as before – I am expected to appear for a meeting scheduled for the following day. If I thought I was on edge waiting for news, then waiting for another meeting, another trial it seems, pushes me over it. The boys do their best to distract me that evening, but it's hopeless. Finally I give up trying to be social in hopes of getting a good night's sleep. Instead, I lie in bed for what feels like hours unable to slow my thoughts.
The day of reckoning, it feels like, and still I am waiting. I sit in the same room as last time, but it seems different somehow. The small man who holds my fate in his hands is somewhere out in the hall. I twist my hands in my lap, trying to keep calm but I'm too anxious about what will happen. Uncertain who I might meet this time around, I'm wearing my best clothes, ones given to me by Marai. Had they decided to talk to Mrs. Everdeen after all? Or someone else? Maybe Haymitch had come.
I've considered every possibility when finally the door to the hallway opens, and when I look up, my eyes meet the familiar and yet now foreign gray eyes common in the Seam. My ability to breathe vanishes. Gale Hawthorne stands in the doorway in military uniform, his expression cold and unfeeling.
"Gale," I croak. I should have guessed they would go to him.
"Miss Amelin," he says. There's poison in his voice.
It scares me speechless, and I'm not even sure why, except I know that he controls my future, and all I see in him is hate and anger.
"So your claim is that the mayor of District 12 just happened to send his daughter out of the District just days before it was destroyed? And if he did, why should anyone bother to help her now?" he asks sharply.
"Gale you know me," I plead. "You've sold me strawberries a hundred times. "
He snorts. "I knew a spoiled princess who never thought about going hungry. Who wouldn't know how to survive two nights on her own. And you want me to believe the mayor would send his precious daughter to a district that was already rebelling?"
It's exactly what I've been afraid of. "He was trying to protect me," I argue, feeling desperate. "Like you would try to protect your family. Like Katniss tried to protect Prim."
At the sound of Prim's name he slams his hand on the table between us. "Don't you dare say that name," he growls.
Angry now I retort, "They were my friends too!"
He paces in front of me, but I'm frozen to my chair. Coldly he asks, "Katniss would have given her life for Prim. Is that what the mayor did? He wouldn't send his daughter into danger, not unless he knew worse was coming. So did he know? Maybe he gave his district's life to save his daughter?" There's a fury just underneath the surface that makes me cringe and look away. I want to argue, to fight back, but I can't find the words.
"So here you are a spoiled princess expecting everyone to go out of their way to help you," he continues. "Forget it. As far as I'm concerned you might as well stay an Amelin because all the Undersees are traitors."
His accusation infuriates me, burying the last of my fear. I want to hurl my fists into his stupid face. His words are still ringing in my ears, when suddenly Gale Hawthorne is gone. I am alone in the dark of the apartment bedroom, my heart racing from the dream from which I was jerked awake. My left leg, having slipped out from the blanket's protection, feels frozen and I instinctively yank it under the covers. I lay in the dark, feeling the itch of the blanket on my arm as the vibrant anger and fear from the dream slowly fade. Groggily I look at the time. It's just after 4 am. I might as well give up on sleep.
Bear frowns when he sees me, bleary-eyed, pajamas rumpled from my restless sleep, but he doesn't ask. He can guess why I'm awake so early. He leans back, pausing in his work, so I take the spot next to him on the couch, curling my legs up under me and leaning into him.
This time when Bear offers to come with me, I agree. If Gale Hawthorne is waiting for me with vicious accusations, I'm going to need some back-up.